Spiritual Writing

Life is as the blinking of an eye

always beginning anew,

yet ever closing,

constant, yet never the same.

It is like raindrops filling an ocean

every single one different,

all small, insignificant,

yet all defining the whole,

as our many experiences of life create us.

Life is like a forest,

each tree starting off small,

then growing, becoming complete,

yet for each tree the forest grows,

even if the tree grows no more.

Life is formless,

without beginning,

or end,

it is, what we make it.

Clouds rolling over the horizon,

a breeze sweeps over the hills,

a battered sign swings, and creaks,

forgotten.

Wooden bones of a once busy town,

withered trees stand here unwanted,

broken streets, and empty buildings,

only the sky remains.

Long lost memories beneath old dust,

silhouettes and shadows,

its lifeblood lost and memories gone,

only bones remain.

A creaking hinge of a rocking chair,

a figure still remains,

a once loved man,

though now forgotten,

only his shell remains.

Memories gone,

an empty shell,

a shadow of what was.

An ancient man, now forgotten,

the world has passed him by,

aches and creaks are all that remain,

no memories left behind.

Nothing is left,

no-one remembers,

forgotten places,

forgotten people,

only the sky remains.

Lifeless stones,

across the field,

memories of what once was.

They sit there quiet,

and lay at rest,

memories of life,

carved into them.

A place of beauty,

filled by trees and birds.

Yet a place,

infinitely sad.

A place of what once,

but will never be again.

Infused with life,

but filled by death,

even the birds are quiet.

First leaves of Autumn,

with all their color,

they fall to earth, imparting life.

Skeletons are left behind,

beauty and life moved on,

all that remains, soon,

will itself, move on.

New life grows,

from cracks in earth,

so much it does not know.

The dead are forgotten,

new life is here,

the birds now call again.